Lenore
by groet-havregrynsson
Summary: A collection of drabbles. Sixteen: Chikusa can see dirt under his fingernails, dirt and blood and flecks of rotting skin, and if he were Ken he would bite them clean; until the edges were ragged and short.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I don't own KHR!

**Adhésifs de Marque**

_Written: July Thirteenth, 2008_

Yamamoto laughs, brushing the hair out of his eyes, brushing the sand from his pants, brushing away the conversation with carefully timed side-steps and foolish words. He knows, _you are what you are_ - and there is nothing more honest than that - so it's not as if he's tied down by others, by anything more than himself, and maybe he'll say yes and maybe he'll say no, but it's the fact that he'll say something that matters.

He's got two Band-Aids with pink flowers and cartoon cats criss-crossing on the skin next to his elbow, junction of arm and arm, a synthetic rubber of the letter twenty-four in a language known for tinny sound and pancakes made on glass-top stoves: Kyoko was the one who handed them to him, tired of looking at the blood, even as he assured her it was only a scratch. Sliding into base haphazardly, and no, it won't happen again, so things quickly shift into awkward-yet-enthusiastic praise. Gokudera's there only because of the Tenth, makes sure to insult the game along with the players and, why not, all of Japan while he's at it, cigarette smoldering and fingers brushing against waxen threads. But Yamamoto thinks sometimes, wonders what it's like to be alone and disliked in a foreign place, dumped here with no family or cultural ties, so he knows, he thinks he knows.

The sleeve of his shirt is ripped, product of sliding against a dirt-covered ground, but it's happened enough that he doesn't worry about it, anymore. Part of the game. He'll sew it up himself later, needles and pins and the quiet mending of cloth against a backdrop of customer and radio noise. He politely rejects Haru's offer of repairs with _thanks, but it's my responsibility_, almost partially-afraid she'll end up altering the entire thing to suit her tastes despite how he knows better, knows to trust. Pats No-Good-Tsuna on the back and excuses himself for a moment, slightly anxious to change out of his shoes and switch back to his school uniform, ready to blend back in and head home or, really, anywhere. It's Spring now, and he can see the stone-faced Disciplinary Leader watching from the rooftop of his beloved Namimori, keeping an eye on the crowd as they head off-campus. Jacket resting on his shoulders like some cape from far-off days, bird and prey.

Baseball clothing slung over his back in a convenience-store shop bag, he returns to the group, Reborn flustering Gokudera with a phrase that little kids really, really shouldn't know. Yamamoto admonishes him gently - the reply is something he doesn't quite get a chance to hear, given the clamour of the rest of his friends - and offers to give him a ride on his shoulders for the trip back. He accepts, and before they know it they're walking towards Sawada's house like a mob that's all noise and no reason for it, and he's making promises to study on the next bright Thursday afternoon, and then he's at the doorstep and waving to say hello, goodbye, waving to say _yeah, I'm sticking around, see you tomorrow and the day after that,_ see you always.

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Written for the KHR! drabble community on LJ, this week's theme is "Uniforms".

The phrase Yamamoto is talking about is referencing 1957's "The Only Intelligent Decision", and "tinny" is referencing "The House on Mango Street". According to the side of the Band-Aid box, "Adhésifs de Marque" means "Adhesive Bandages". (According to Babel Fish it means "Adhesives of Mark", but... ehhh...)


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I don't own Katekyo Hitman Reborn!

**Adhésifs de Marque**

_Posted July Seventeenth, 2008_

Kyoko's sweet, sweet words are flavoured with strawberry-candy-bubblegum intentions and innocent thoughts. She's a girl with nothing better to do than form sticky, warm dough into much-appreciated feats of culinary concoction: delicate twists of chocolates and vanillas, sprinkles of matcha and diced peaches, soft icing and powdered-sugar wisps. Elbows resting against flaking, painted counters and bare toes sliding, shifting against the floor, the summer heat hasn't yet fulfilled potential, so her skirt rests neatly at her thighs and her tennis shoes have been left on the landing.

Flour decorates her camisole (mint-green frogs and yellow daffodils, screened against a plethora of sky-coloured polka dots and pink static) with splashes of white, sleeves rolled to thin, smooth elbows. A patterned dishrag lays on standby near the edge of the kitchen sink. Sunlight, and the swell of traffic greet her from the open window to her left. She tries to practice her Spanish, glad that the phrases she has learned come easily to mind, talking in some too-loud volume reserved for empty rooms and introverted guests. A disk plays, muffled euro-pop and upbeat drumming from the adjacent room. Awkwardly mispronounced, she doesn't notice and is pleased, so pleased.

"Esto es un regalo para un amigo. No pagaré más que lo que indica el taxímetro. ¿Dónde está la oficina de las cosas perdidas?"

With cheerful enthusiasm she begins to chant the days of the week, then the months, mixing miércoles with martes and dropping a clump of halfway-melted butter onto the countertop - soft, oozing drips of liquid yellowing from their prior baby-shade hues, slurring into strong, wet golden-browns against the paint. Chipped and flaking. Wooden spoon suspended in mid-air as she leans forward to wipe away the mess. Her grin is molasses-thick, hair kept at bay with bright plastic clips and an old, worn elastic band that serves to tie remaining strands into a lofty gather, debonair and fresh. Sleeves rolled up, shoes on the landing, cell turned off. There's not quite enough oatmeal, and the scent of cloves fills the room, and she wishes she could remember to buy an electronic mixer because the lumpy, heavy mass is hard to stir with just one hand: the other occupied with bracing the cool metal of the bowl against her chest.

The oven beeps repeatedly, informing her that the previously-set temperature has been reached.

She smiles wide, wide. As gleamingly bright as the greased sheet in front of her. Knife at the ready to carve pretty little hearts, to carve moist and edible engravings into the sugary mess at her disposal, pupils engorged. Twenty-four cookies, twenty-four years. _Happy birthday, Tsuna._

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No prompt for this one. I was striving for a "Kyoko's kinda insane" thing. Considering what we've found out in the last, oh, hundred chapters or so - at the age of twenty-four, with the current results of that timeline, there isn't really a reason to be making him birthday cookies. Also, I made her to be learning Spanish because it's close enough to Italian - of course, she isn't mixed up in all the mafia stuff, so I figured they would make her try a different language instead if they could convince her. Plus, I don't know Italian.


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: I don't own Katekyo Hitman Reborn!

trompe l'oeil

_Written July Nineteenth, 2008_

Illusion -

_Only students of Namimori are allowed on premises, unless you are here with authorization._

And, she glances down. Up. Takes in the difference of colours and styles, notices the bird sitting awkwardly about his hair, mouths the words emblazoned on his armband. Fumbles with the hem of her skirt, still marveling at its difference from her old clothing, and from her hospital smock. Her missing eye - _they took it; ripped it from slick, garnet cords of nerves, and the pain _- is covered with a bandage. It itches.

She opens her mouth. No sound. Breathes nothing but air, moves her gaze from her clothing to his face, again. Wonders, slightly, what the view would be if she were to lean against the metal railing. Wonders if she would be able to see the Tenth, wonders if she would know it were he when she hasn't been given a picture, yet. Yellow blurs on the edge of her vision, and she turns to watch the bird take flight.

_I have recently transferred in. I haven't bought a uniform yet._

Avoiding motorcars is not possible, and not something she needs to do. Next time she will save the cat again, unless she's been forbade, unless it would be a hindrance. Chrome isn't full of idiotic fantasies, or delusions: It is entirely possible that he is the one who caused her injuries in the first place. But, he is also the one who saved her, the reason why her stomach is protuberant and her body isn't rotting in the dirt, isn't burned to ashes. She will do anything.

Hibari smells like pollen and matted fur, dust and ichor.

The Disciplinary Leader's weapons are metal rods, perfect for crushing bones and besetting combatants in short-range quarters. They're dented, unless her monocular vision is too deceiving, and she mentally calculates how much force would have to be the catalyst. Gives up, and she knows that she is -

_You're not in the school registry, and dyed hair is against regulations. Do you know the consequences of disrupting discipline?_

Becoming dangerous. She can taste the salt in the air, and envisions her opponent's fingers sliding towards the tonfa hooked around the waistband of his slacks, slamming into her with brutal force. _He would realize it too soon,_ so the magician turns to leave after one final stare.

After all, cats play with canaries before moving to the kill, and (she can see the feathers spilling.)

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FF's spell checker is stupid. "Ichor" is most definitely a word!


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: I don't own Katekyo Hitman Reborn!

Cenci

_Written August Eighteenth, 2008_

I-Pin realized one day, while frying noodles in the back room, that the reason she received the job was not because she was bilingual, or hard working, or cute. It was because she was Chinese. The steam of the hot plate made her sweat and she dribbled some more oil onto the mess, scraping it from here to there with a spatula, frowning as a piece fell off and onto the counter. There were only two employees working today on deliveries, and their little shop was getting more and more popular as time went on, even though the seasons had changed and hot food seemed like it should be hated, at the very least.

She had been hoping it was otherwise, that her friends had threatened the owner behind her back or that the people who had recommended her had lavished praise, or even that he had simply hired her because he thought she would be good for the job. Maybe it was too much to hope for, that she could get by in Japan without even this kind of prejudice. But she knew, also, that customers are interested in foreigners - whether for better or worse, it would draw them to the shop by just knowing that she worked there. Her coworkers were all lithe, young Japanese - satisfying the status quo, and about what you'd expect for part-time, summer workers. Tanned skin and perfect manners, the slightly-loose work ethic that the youth in this country seemed to possess, these days. While this isn't the job she could see herself doing for the rest of her life, it was what her Boss had wanted, and so she had agreed.

Which wasn't to say she didn't still train - it would be stupid not to, after all. Something could always come up. She liked to make visits to Hong Kong when the weather wasn't as bad as it was, once a year or twice, if she could. Mainland China was too…

Her pay would be handed to her in a small envelope with the shop's logo and address, a heavy weight of coins to total her hours and work, transferred from paper to cloth in the pocket of her pants. The owner smiling kindly, a crinkle in his eye as he thanked her and told her to invite her friends, the smiling one and that man with the bird, just like the week before. Certainly this did not change her, she was not going to quit because of such a petty thing. It was nothing compared to the training she had undergone, and by the time her regimen finished each day it was midnight and all she could think about was bed, the perfect stress-release save epileptic dancing with an armful of 7440-01-9, wages spent on water that costs nearly 814 a pop

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References to a certain fic with glowsticking-Roxas, HibarixYamamoto, HibarixDino.


	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer: I don't own Katekyo Hitman Reborn!

waxen coated, vellum-sheathed

_Written August Twenty-Eighth, 2008_

His fingers were broken, or it seemed it, and blood matted the uniform of his shirt, left-side seeping pain down and down and down. Thick bruises, marring smooth, blooming skin and -

He can't be - separate, separate. In the moment of battle, lack of emotion is the greatest weapon one can have. Save rings and boxes and little metal rods, save intelligence. Mukuro's laughing at him, now, always laughing. Out of the corner of his eye fulvous (dirtied) feathers float slowly down the air, calm and weightless, reminding him of salty waves and mud-caked scents, cold streams of water in the bank of time, little silver flashes and misplaced scales. _Lost, not misplaced._

Hibari isn't arrogant enough to say he knew it was coming, that being slammed into the ground was _planned_, breath knocked out of him with brutal force. This one, it isn't an illusion. The man leans over him, all whipstitch-quick, crushing weight, and smiles: a laceration complete with sharp, white teeth.

"Bodies," he says, single eye feverishly bright, grip too hard. "are merely twists and flicks of strings, fat-slicked neurons, and the delight in something lovely." The younger mutters something, threatens quietly with what little he can given the labouring of his fleshy, spongy lungs, but Mukuro's presence is like ether and molasses, like rainbow-coloured oil torpid and dripping into cracks, moving sluggishly onto the pavement, slow and unstoppable, and (he cannot wrench himself free, it is too strong, and too drawn-out. Even if - )

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References to quillslinger's (Also known as ronsard) Alice and Naminé story, and to The Little Mermaid. (With the scales).


	6. Chapter 6

Disclaimer: I don't own Katekyo Hitman Reborn!

Creme D'Yvette

_Written September Third, 2008_

"Do it," he says, and she does, in the mild warmth of an Italian afternoon, in the bathroom of some local hotel with cracked tiles and dirtied walls. Inconspicuous, and cheap, and the colour of vanilla créme, and nothing but games on the television. Fizzing in and out of clarity but neither of them like to watch: anyway, there is something like humidity. And she drinks her tea with careful sips because, there is no attracco for her here, so things are weightless.

The two of them are in their standard, black suits, Chrome's eyepatch bland and Hibari's temporary (foreign, and strange, and different in colour) bird eating seed at the windowsill, short bursts of song to punctuate the minutes of nothing, because there's nothing and nothing to talk about, besides the mission. He asked her, once, if Mukuro was there - he wasn't.

With one hand on his back, a light touch, she can feel the words vibrate through his skin. She shivers: he is strong, very strong. There are no scissors, so the razor blade is sharp and smooth against her palm, metallic and small and biting. Being this close to someone is unnerving, but Hibari is calm and still, so she uses two thin, young hands and does the best that she is able. Notices that his hair is rough and straight, like her own, so _maybe they are the same_ after all.

The girl accidentally slices the pad of her thumb once, twice, not deep enough to bleed, so far. A thin layer of white, dead skin. Brushes the clipped hair from his shoulders, from his clothes, and it lands in dark whorls against the sticky flooring with a lazy scattering in the air, and soundless impact. When they finish the day is almost over, and she sweeps it clean, into the dust bin.

There is a meeting, tomorrow.

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I did not know that "creme" doesn't have an accent. But I am keeping it there for... pronunciation. Haha.


	7. Chapter 7

Disclaimer: I don't own Katekyo Hitman Reborn!

Balsamella

_Written September 20th, 2008_

It's cold outside. Chrome has gently warming mittens, soft yarns of red and white and red, and they have begun to bead at her fingertips and palms. A present from Mukuro, weeks past, when the weather started cooling and leaves began to fall in the air, fluttering and lurching like little baby birds in the wind, motherless and uncertain. She remembers someone told her once, if you can grasp a leaf while it's drifting from its branch…

Then, she had woken up in someone's kitchen, bread baking in the oven and sleeves rolled to combat the heat. Dusts of flour on her clothes and on her thin, nimble hands. A package neatly wrapped in plain, lined paper. (The bread, later, was - ) any garlic scent has faded, but the recipe is written in Italian: scrawled, black ink on the back of that same card, thin and unbleached, which bore her name.

She has no real coat - _they wouldn't let her, despite that it was his body as well, despite_ - and, quietly, she breathes into the air. Watches what was once in her lungs swell into little clouds of sifting, pale whites, thinking maybe these are illusions born from illusions. Her fingers trace patterns into the dust.

And she smiles a little, because she has a secret. She can feel him, in the throbbing of her heart, in the warmth of her skin, on her lips. Maybe, every so often, he whispers things to her, inside her mind. Dreaming, the words are _ti amo, Chrome_ and she can feel a little lighter. As if this were all it took to be happy, this blurring sentence in reverie. But still,_ it is too cold_ - she shivers into her arms and wishes for heat, for an oven with which to bake, for softer things than REM consolations.

Her missing eye itches. Winter dries the skin out, but she doesn't dare reach inside, touch the -

They call her Nagi. She watches the snow drift downwards with the wind, and wraps her scarf tighter around her neck. Tugs her gloves a little lower. It's quiet here. Mukuro is sleeping, hidden away for the season with less than a goodbye, a hazy nothingness. Can do nothing but keep and covet, the sensation of a man in her thin frame, of Mafiosi unpredictability. She quivers, imagining the glossy, smooth fur of a kitten at her ankle, the feel of a tail wrapping lazily around her calf, and Hibari comes to visit, sometimes. Mukuro doesn't say anything, anything at all if he's not there, not taking control and pushing her to some far, far away place where the land is dripping with sun and the air is soft butter, garlic cloves and shells.

The cold bites through her and she shudders, and it is empty, and Chrome has gently warming mittens, soft yarns of red and white and red, and they have begun to bead at her fingertips and palms. A present, from Hibari when the leaves started dying and melting away with the wind. She remembers, someone told her once, if you can grasp a leaf while it's drifting from its branch…

Sometimes, she wakes up - and there is the slight surprise of being somewhere she shouldn't, and the topsy-turvy feeling of _oh, Mukuro was here, again_, and maybe, sometimes, the garlic aftertaste of bread to coat the roof of her mouth. But her teeth are always clean, and her clothes are always ironed, and her cell phone is set to the sound of church bells - ringing and ringing, and perhaps this is Italy calling to her - and so she is content, even with:

Their room is bare, broken, cold. No kitchen, no furniture - _that's too good for her, too good -_ and even Mukuro had been pleased with nothing but a couch and tattered draperies. Where the Kokuyou Entertainment Centre rests on the edge of the abandoned highway, caked mud and metal and pipes that leak with long-dead machine souls (ideas and thought), she sits. Quietly. Wondering what play Mukuro will have them perform next.

One time, amidst the sticky warmth of summer, her senses fell away from her and her thoughts diminished and there he was, only she could never see it, pushed away to some fairy-tale land with sugar blades of grass and blue, blue skies.

Her stomach - it always feels empty. Maybe it's illusions to feed illusion organs, illusions upon illusions. Something from nothing. To create illusions is to tamper directly with the five senses - turn carrion into bread, butter, lemons and fish. Something grand. She isn't sure if she's here or there, if she's Nagi or Mukuro or Chrome. She wakes up, and it is to the pulsing of a heart, the gurgle of blood, eyes dilated and breathing too fast, too fast -

He surprised them, or she surprised them. A kiss on the cheek, without a smile. Caring words. And it's a greeting, in Italy, so she's quite amazed when the boy who should be from there, isn't. The first time she meets Mukuro, he smells of cloves, and tells her that maybe, the two of them are alike. But by that point she's lost interest, her eyes roll to the side, seeing leaves and waves and fat, wriggling caterpillars amble through the dirt.

Her missing eye, it itches, and she longs to -

Nagi awakes and she dreams of the ocean, biting cold and trees that block the sun. Her hair is damp with rain, and she clutches her bag to her chest, double-checking the zipper with a trembling, uneven motion. She's on the rooftop of Namimori Junior High and there Hibari lays, snapped bones and broken, distorted words. Unmoving. And _I did this for you, dear Chrome - _

A Tuesday comes, and she's tipping into their flat; old, abandoned, dirty. Hello, she says, and no response. And always, always they ask for him and she replies: _I can't call him. He does when he wants _and right now there's no reason for it, no reason at all. Then they sit, talking of nothing, and she daydreams about kittens and clouds and little yellow butterflies in the summer air, pressed sheets and ribbons of sweet pastries to cool on smooth, clean counter-tops.

Italy comes to her in a dream. She wakes, and she is nothing but a vessel, but right now that is okay. Sometimes, she confuses (past and present Chrome, but it's okay) but it's okay. She wakes, and it is to the sound of church bells ringing, to adrenaline rushing through her and painless, effortless, continuous, death. Her fingers quiver.

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For _yamikakyuu_.


	8. Chapter 9

Disclaimer: I don't own Katekyo Hitman Reborn!

La Môme Piaf

_Written November Seventeenth, 2008_

"Hibari-san..." Chrome looks at him, his clothes, his movements. Stares, and he yawns, quietly - one thin, pale arm slipping up to cover his mouth. His hair is freshly cut, and the path they are walking on brings them past roots and earth and...

It's warm, pastel days edging into summer, a late afternoon. She pauses, waits for a little while, and he almost mutters something. She knows. But, all is muted - as if she's hearing, seeing, things through a filter like clouded glass like - because at the moment she feels real. Content. Nagi is one-hundred-two-point-four centimeters away from him: they do not touch, barely speak, and they are fine with this. Always, fine.

Hibari doesn't snap at her, smile cruelly and break her heart._ He's older, now, and he has better things to do_ and she can almost tell what he is thinking, what they all think, and how the years have...

Sunday. No work to be done, other than the usual. No school to go to - _and she feels strange, as if she should be_ - and, it's just her. Mukuro disappeared long ago with hardly a goodbye, melting away with sticks and stones and broken bones, half-cracked words of advice to fill her spirit. To fill her memory. There once was a man who, having riches beyond imagination, moved a castle piece-by-piece across the world. He filled it with wine and painted it with murals, and offered it to the people, and they declined because only the highest of the high take pride in such a thing; a dusty, empty tomb. Hibari is dangerous, but right now he has no teeth, tonfa locked away somewhere with rings and boxes and wool - moth-eaten swatches of matted blacks and greys. She doesn't need her trident to create illusions, and even if he...

Once, she bought ice cream. Vanilla to soothe the heat. He watched her, and, she - bought a second, unthinkingly. Just, because. She (never) offered it to him, and he (never) accepted, the sweet taste lingering on the tip of her tongue for minutes, hours, days. Like words, like sentences, and thoughts. And in the shade of a porch, their gazes wandered.

One's company, two's a crowd.

She can see through him, illusions and illusions and illusions. Pick apart what's real, what's flesh and sinew and bone, sharp wit and a gash of a smile. This is the first time she has been to Namimori in months, sent away to practice her floundering Italian in crème-coloured streets, in mud-swept hotel rooms and dreary gatherings of papers and lectures and crisp, ironed cotton. The meeting was success, however:

There's the patter of the clouds turning a dark, charcoal-grey. Dripping slowly onto the dirt, and the sidewalk, and the grass. And it's Nagi, and she watches with one eye and marvels at a dying mix of hues, at the world blurring before her. Unafraid, (never) afraid. Then there's rain, rain, rain and he pulls out his umbrella with the elegance of a debonair, handsome and more polite than she's ever seen him. A lack of speech. It is expected, demanded, and Mukuro has disappeared with -

And they walk, towards the station with barely twenty-four-point-three centimeters between them, with the drowning rush of the crowd. Brushing arms, accidentally as someone bumps into her from the side. Hibari frowns at her, maybe increases his pace, and then they are sheltered under a concrete ceiling, skies pooling at their feet. He almost presses close.

"You can't get sick." He tells her, and hands her the umbrella; already wrapped up, the wood of the handle slightly warm. She wonders, if there is the need to return it. She wonders, and watches the cracks in the ceiling, and memorizes the folds in his clothes.

"And, you…?" Because, she's seen him. In a hospital bed, feverish, body weak and hardly able to move. In a room full of other patients who've all been bitten to death, whose heartbeats had kept him from sleeping. Needles and antibiotics and -

When he walks her to the door it is with a teasing quirk of his lips, almost a show of his control. Of how he hasn't quite changed, not since she first met him, not since - And, in a strange way, this is comforting. Mukuro has… He adjusts his tie as she clicks the lock, leans briefly against the wood before pushing it open, before she fades away inside, and:

"…Have you… ever been to Mass?"

Her cell phone rings and it is the sound of church bells, thick and heavy and_ Mukuro disappeared long ago with hardly a goodbye_ -

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For _silhouette_68._  
Prompt: 10YL!Hibari + 10YL!Chrome  
Visiting Namimori, passing by a church; Hibari-san, have you ever been to mass?  
800 words.


	9. Chapter 10

Disclaimer: I don't own Katekyo Hitman Reborn!

Antoine

_Written November Twenty-Third, 2008_

He's smoking a cigarette. Feet planted firmly on the browning, dying grass, fingers of one hand digging into the dirt, into roots and mud. The smoke wavers in front of his eyes (and it's almost like mist, almost like clouds) of a translucent, indecisive gray. Staring into the distance, a crumpled receipt in his pocket, change in the bottom of his shoe. The air is damp, and a slight wind catches his interest for a moment, and he watches the sky. He doesn't feel a thing.

There's sea slugs, in a place like this. Starfish and oysters. He's gotten cuts from broken shells and bits of glass, sharp rocks. Caught a crab on accident, by flipping over rocks for something to do. The music playing in his ears is piano, violin and cello, and with it cancels out the sound of waves, of ocean salt tingling on his lips. Gokudera scowls, examining a piece of sea glass, and checks his watch.

_Don Tsunayoshi is late._ Just, for a moment, he wonders what it'd be like to…

Lights another cigarette and makes a castle; sand packing firmly into a mound. Makes a moat around it, digging and digging with wrists slicked with mud, fingernails covered in grit. Swears as too many minutes pass, and the tide rises, and now it's halfway gone. Gokudera kicks off his shoes - they're sopping wet, coins spew out when the rubber hits the sand - and rolls up his pant legs, despite the cold. And, he won't understand why:

That _Mist_ had been there, earlier, and not even Reborn had said anything. Well, he doesn't trust them - either of them. Never would, in fact: And that was that. He places shrimp, dead ones with flimsy shells. Around the castle as guards. Builds up a fence with stones, uses seaweed bulbs as heavy, monstrous flags. It's about to rain, and he hears footsteps, but he knows who they belong to. There's only one person -

"Buon giorno. Posso lasciare un messaggio?" Gokudera winces. That was rehearsed, he can tell - even so, it still sounds like the most awful Italian he's ever heard. He decides to reply in Japanese to save his ears, and the Tenth from embarrassment.

"Hi. What d'you want? I'm kinda busy." It's cold, so cold. But he's not going to stop until he's done - he has to rebuild this East wall, first. Maybe the Tenth should close his eyes for a few minutes, because at this point, he wasn't supposed to see this yet. See _him_, yet. He snorts in annoyance and reshapes part of the wall, digs the moat deeper around one corner.

"…Aren't you going to come back? We all, um, miss you." Not going to look up - that's a lie, isn't it. Probably, the only one who really wants him back is that idiot Yamamoto. Even if it's for Sawada, he's not going to return to that stupid…

"Just stay here. Look," Gokudera jabs a thumb at his misshapen castle and spits his cigarette into the water, demanding. "This is your present. Happy birthday."

Tsuna looks like he's trying not to laugh, and he frowns. There's nothing funny about it. He explains, painstakingly, that the trail from the moat to the ocean is so any water can drain out, if it gets inside. What type of shells those are; and what type of shrimp live in the water around here, from the colour of their bodies. And, he had to wade in that freezing sea _forever_ to find the perfect lump of seaweed for that tower, thanks. With this comes:

A sudden realization. He thinks, he understands Tsuna a little more, now. The same kid who asked even that _Mist_ to come to his party, also came to get Gokudera himself, afterwards. And, _this is the kindness that he's held from the very beginning; _and the (Tenth Don of the Vongola can't lose to anyone.)

Not now, and not ever.

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For _chesauroshin__._  
Prompt: Gokudera and Tsuna  
"top of the world" or, alternately, one of those scavenger-hunt-type-things where you have to go from one place to the next to pick up clues to find a surprise. A happy ending.

A/N: Sea glass is, as I take it, glass that has been worn down completely smooth by the waves on all sides and corners. I have a piece somewhere that's a light, light blue. When you are on the beaches of my childhood, it is never warm - the water is freezing no matter what temperature it is that day, and frequently it will rain while you're there. Seaweed bulbs are like small, dark green, heavy balloons with long trails of seaweed attached to them, they are everywhere. When they dry out, I think they become brown. The smell of rotting seaweed in the summer is especially disgusting, and what hurts most is cutting your toes on rocks or shells and then getting the salt water all over your feet. Then by the time you get to the car, your feet are covered in sand and you have to wash them off again, and your cut is still bleeding.

The title is from François Truffaut's "The 400 Blows". Please watch it, it's a very good movie!


	10. Chapter 11

Disclaimer: I don't own Katekyo Hitman Reborn!

**La Marejada**

_Written December 31st, 2008_

The tea she is brewing is jasmine, and from here he can see the leaves uncurl with the heat. Can see the water, change. Colour. This woman, has a slight blush and sways happily as she moves about a kitchen not her own. Lingers over the counter, flits between the sink and cutlery drawer to her side. Elegantly, Hibari draws up a chair at the dining room table; watches her carefully with both eyes open, fingers still. _She is a hitman_, information gathered by his Disciplinary Committee have supplied him with that fact. As well as, he can read her thoughts as easily as breathing - this amount of carelessness is indeed what he would expect from a foreigner. She is preparing something for one she loves.

Such an obvious display of one's feelings is... insulting. It's no wonder, the reason why she hasn't risen to even half the level of the baby. Perhaps is at the level Hibari himself once was, before the Cavallone arrived and all he had to silence were unruly students with his tonfa. Probably, is nearer the level of that Bucking Horse himself, from before the Cloud's precious school was destroyed, but [those people were the ones to pay for damages, so] he won that battle, after all. What he could tell from the moment he stepped into the room, was that _she is weak_, and would be only slightly more interesting to fight than the average herbivore. Hibari closes his eyes and leans back in his chair, imagining the sky instead of ceiling. The warmth of the room is comforting, compared to the outside - it is fall, and he doesn't want to be reminded of the cold just yet. Now, with the smell of tea and the memory of summer, he is too content to bite her to death.

"Tea." He demands, unmoving with a tired sigh, hearing the kettle slam onto the stovetop with her rage. Hibird chirps and flutters to his outstretched palm, while the sister of Gokudera Hayato attempts to humble him. Fabric shifts, and her hands rest at her hips, feet defiantly apart. This woman is pretending she has some sort of power over him, and he does not appreciate...

"I'm not your maid!" Throwing the kettle she had just worked so hard to prepare towards his face, he snaps to alert and dodges it, easily - catching it by the handle as he hears the beginning of Namimori's anthem play, slightly off-key. Only a small amount spills onto the flooring, dribbling from the spout. Hibari strides past her and takes a waiting cup from the counter, pours himself a drink. He will not fight her, because: The baby has appeared, and is much more of a worthy opponent. The woman notices only after a greeting has been received - Ciaossu - and she quickly forgets about the Disciplinary Leader in favour of blushing over Reborn.

He can't help but see a similarity between -

"Baby." Hibari grins and looks into his cup. The scent of jasmine has faded into mud and rot, and inside the drink insects writhe, headless centipedes and bits of flesh call out like ghosts. The work of that mafia girl, who may be cleverer than he first thought.

On an impulse he hurls the cup, aiming for the arcobaleno's head - who easily deflects with a single hand, the liquid splattering the kitchen wall and warping the paint. Doesn't care about the damages, for this place is not his - he only, makes note of them. Nothing has touched either of them, and the cup now lays broken on the floor. Fragmented ceramic in the pattern of cherry blossom petals. Kyoya wants a battle, [his fingers reach for his tonfa,] but he will respect the baby's wishes.

"Amazing, again."

"I'll fight with you some other day, Hibari. It's nap time." Is the response, with an emotionless face. And with that Reborn walks upstairs, the girl following him devotedly and professing her love. The Disciplinary Leader yawns, and gets up to find the front door, brushing tiny yellow feathers from his collar. At the mention of sleep, he has found he's tired as well, and the Cloud staggers out into the rain, ready to take a bus home. A nap, he thinks, a nap.

x

I wrote this for Serenade for a fic exchange... it turns out, I mixed up her LJ with someone else's and consequentially mixed up her fandoms. She doesn't know KHR at all. She didn't even read this. Then I wrote her something else that she did know as an apology, and she didn't like it.


	11. Chapter 12

Disclaimer: I don't own Katekyo Hitman Reborn!

Moltke

_Written January First, 2009  
_

In the middle of the summer heat, inside Tsuna's room with the shades drawn low, Gokudera's twisting his limbs and flailing as the coloured bubbles pop, the little cartoon dinosaurs - nothing like those ever really existed, and this game isn't exactly avant-garde for the modern times anyway, so how could he possibly have _fun_ with - magically producing the next to be thrown. The handicap's on, seeing as it was the Italian's first time playing, and after a while the dashed lines become irrelevant and they just shoot in desperation to stay alive, the wall of cheery rainbow orbs turning into some kind of disturbing reminder of the end of vacation. Closing that last distance between the overdraw boundary and them, between class-free days and arrogant teachers and too-boring exams.

Hayato's screen turns to grey, and he shouts in despair, hits the button to play again. That's his twenty-third loss, after all. It's the character: its high-pitched exclamations hurt his ears and the bonus combos aren't doing him any good either, so he should definitely choose another one. Never mind that he's been grinning the entire time the game's been on. Although - _Atmark-kun? What the hell kind of name is that?!_ - they had been planning to go outside today, it's not until Yamamoto calls them up that they remember. Nana's baking in the kitchen, so there's no need to lock the door, but the asphalt's so hot that Tsuna has to run back inside for sandals; and by the time he finds them Yamamoto's already down the block, waving at the two from the sidewalk.

xxx

At the convenience store, the first thing they do is head for the ice cream - brightly coloured packages crinkling as they search through the shelves for missing flavours, trying to find a favourite brand. They dally - have a hard time deciding on soda, on candy and bags of chips, and by the time they pay and return to the sidewalk their ice cream has melted into something resembling a chocolate shake inside plastic wrapping. There's not enough money left to buy replacements, so they drink it from the package and enjoy it all the same, lukewarm-sweet and dribbling down their faces in a sticky mess. Yamamoto solves that problem by taking off his shirt and using it as a towel, and the others follow suit because it's too hot for clothes anyway, and it's sure lucky they're boys 'cause they don't know how girls can handle it.

They head to Namimori park, because Yamamoto's baseball practice is over for the day, and there's nothing better to do than fly paper airplanes and complain about the weather. Gokudera's are the best, while Yamamoto knows nothing but the basic design and Tsuna apparently fail at even _that_. His airplane flutters uselessly in the air, and eventually lands in the stagnant water fountain to the left of their bench, the drain clogged with gum and trash. He's not going to pick it back up.

All too soon and it's getting dark, so the three walk side-by-side until they have to part ways, Yamamoto leaving first and Gokudera not long after, sneakers dragging on the pavement as he shouts goodbye. And goodbye. And goodbye. Sawada Tsunayoshi smiles weakly and returns home, sighing, regretting the fact that he's been assigned an insurmountable pile of homework, due before school starts again. He's already given up on that, and Yamamoto probably has too, although he could bet Gokudera did it in half an hour and with time to spare. It looks like tomorrow, the foreigner's going to have to return and actually _help_ him instead of getting himself distracted playing games, because the sooner his grades rise the sooner Reborn can get out of his house. [Although at this point he's beginning to think - ]

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Prompt:

Tsuna/Gokudera.  
About trust and friendship and doing silly, simple things. 500+  
For: _ilye_aru_


	12. Chapter 13

Disclaimer: I don't own Katekyo Hitman Reborn.

The Thousand

_Written February Twelfth, 2009  
_

They are sitting in a rental house in Reykjavik, waiting for coffee and toast, and Chrome is reading at the table. Noting errors in pen, writing into the margins of her textbook with her native Japanese. Studying. It is evening - the time difference is still something they haven't quite settled into, and either way they probably won't be staying for long, again. Pulled into another conflict that she feels no regret for - one of her responsibilities is to make mistakes disappear, paint over them with layers and layers of something not-quite-there.

She'd like to quit, she thinks. Everything.

"Are you happy, being alive?" Nagi asks, turning the page, rubbing one finger along the edge of the table and wishing it would smear. Living with Yamamoto, she is tired of Japanese food: of eggs on rice and miso soups and delicate, blushing sushi with every meal. No matter how rare some things are here. [However, she doesn't cook for herself , so] there is nothing she can do about it. He's laughing, at something. Perhaps at her. Perhaps, at something he is reading in the English edition of the newspaper, protests and changes in government, signs of the times. She sets her work aside, gathers pieces of paper together from the desk.

A revolution, is that what this is?

She almost misses Mukuro. The letters they send to each other are fake, sweet notes to a sweet-faced Leonardo, his girlfriend from abroad writing in love-struck code on white paper with green lines. She prints in Italian, but mixes in English or French while pretending to not know the word, asking him for help on grammar or spelling or phrasing or life. Picks up her pen and starts another letter, decorates it with a tiny heart.

"Yeah, I'm happy." The Rain pauses, glances at her, reaches for the milk. She imagines that he looks concerned, imagines what he's thinking. Doesn't look away from the ink on the pads of her fingers, or the scratches in the table, or the hemming of her sleeve. "What brings that up?"

Nagi doesn't answer, and moves from the greeting to the opening sentence. _If she tried to_ - but, she can't do that, lest he think something is wrong. The fear of looking weak has never been something to affect her, but to distract his work would be… inappropriate. Unacceptable, as he resembles the Cloud a bit more than previously thought. And, Byakuran is a delicate operation to configure, after all.

"Is something going on with him?" Yamamoto doesn't know where Mukuro is or what he is doing, but speaks as if talking about a close friend, casual Japanese when surrounded by Icelandic. She wonders if he really doesn't know better, that the Mist serves only himself; and she almost smiles, almost.

_It's nothing._ If she wandered into the ocean, she might be found too quickly. Or her body might wash ashore while unconscious, coughing up water with the natural instincts to survive. If she tried a rope, there was always the possibility that the knot could come undone, or that she wouldn't be able to find a tree to tie it from in the first place. Really, it isn't anything more than a matter of resolution, and of finding the best way to…

"Do you know, what to do if you are lost in a forest here?" She asks, almost writing something obscene. Mukuro would be amused to know his dear little Chrome had such a way with words, but the two of them should keep up appearances. They are nothing but sweethearts, and there's something to be said about keeping innocent in thought.

The man shrugs, and grins. He's heard it before, most likely, but that isn't going to stop him from laughing again, buttering another piece of toast and sitting down at the table across from her. He was raised well, this Yamamoto Takeshi - doesn't even try to peek at what she's writing, just listens.

"You just… look around, and stand up." Because there are no forests to speak of, and nothing to block one's view, not really. The baseball player chuckles despite the way she delivers the line, monotonous and apathetic, and shifts to tap her on the wrist. For a moment, Nagi wonders what he is going to tell her - she leans back in her chair and stares as he flits over her cheekbones, her missing eye. Then as he grows quiet: busies himself clearing away the dishes, washing his hands.

She dips her fingers in girlish perfume and creases the edges of the paper, folding it into the envelope resting to her left. Pre-addressed in sloping, messy cursive with words bleeding into words, elbow brushing against her mug of coffee, almost tipping it over and onto her shirt. Silently, moves it away and continues with her work, closing the envelope the way a proper lady should.

The letter is finished but outside it is raining, and she feels too lethargic to leave the house, umbrella in the corner by the door. Yamamoto asks her if she would like some tea, and she declines, and with two fingers smears the ring of coffee that her mug has left behind. Nagi feels tired, [a little tired] of everything, and sighs into the crook of her arm, and rests her head against the table.

"I'm going to take a bath." She tells him, placing her cup on the counter of the kitchen, lingering by the stove. Running her hands along the edges of the cabinets, tapping a rhythm with the flat of her palms, awkwardly, bored and without thought. Seconds pass before she turns to leave, realizes [it is not her place,] and the kitchen is too crowded, with the two of them. She almost says something, but changes her mind. Yamamoto hums to himself, wipes his hands on the dishtowel hanging by the sink, and turns the light off when he leaves the room. Takes his place back at the table, and opens up his newspaper again.

Tomorrow, she will do it tomorrow.

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Written for the _KHR-Undercover _community_. _"The Thousand" - _(Giuseppe Garibaldi and his Red Shirts - renamed the Thousand - began a campaign to unite Southern Italy)  
_


	13. Chapter 14

Disclaimer: I don't own Katekyo Hitman Reborn.

Switchboard

_Written October Sixth, 2008  
_

The day Ryohei joins the boxing club is the day he meets Hibari, all woolen-tempered and standalone, and the day the rules are explained to him in bright, green ink. _If,_ he is told, on a blustery day in the middle of November, leaves falling and the burnt smell of roasted chestnuts in the wind, _your grades lower, you will be removed._ One of many promises spoken to him in even tones, in expressions of boredom and slight distrust, for Hibari knows no one but himself.

He smiles, and goes to thump him on the back - misses, of course, his eyesight is bad today - thanks him for making things, extremely, clear. Because Namimori hours are over, only these two and the activity clubs are left. It's a little grating on his patience, children staying after when they have nothing of importance to do. And:

"Hey." The voice is like powdered chalk, all fading, childhood hues and oh-so light; any dust of tact blown away in the wind. He doesn't scowl, but it's close, and makes a mental note about the boy's - messily knotted - tie. _Hooligan._ A sentence starts out long, slow, like a casual remark, and rises in pitch. A false afterthought.

The reply is curt, seeps into his bones and shreds what it finds there, but his hope is still intact enough for a second try. The idea is that perhaps, today, someone will be bitten. His fingers itch to wrap themselves around Ryohei's throat, to dig nails into that soft, downy skin, [He wants blotches, olallie-tainted smudges to mar his neck and shoulders, thin scarring and something to be crushed] where he can squeeze until -

"No."

And that is that. Kyoya walks away, the empty sleeves of his jacket swaying, slightly. The clouds are dark, plum-bruised, and soon it will rain: he can taste it in the air. The plan is to return to his classroom, make sure everything is in proper order - sometimes the people on duty moved the dust around, instead of cleaned - and then he would retire to his apartment, and study.

The cement is dry beneath him, and then there are the heavy thuds of shoes against the pavement, Sasagawa running after to question him once more. The answer is the same, but this time accompanied by warning blow - a strike across the face. Blood drips down. _Don't bother me,_ he says, and frowns. _What I hate most is people who group together, like a pack of quivering deer trying to protect themselves in numbers from a single wolf. I am not a herbivore._

Despite this he asks, one more time, and gets much worse than a broken nose. Hibari does not like annoyances, or those who are weak - and this is both - so he slams a foot into the boy's ribs and continues from there, not a challenge. [Part of him breaks a little, to see the uniform] of his school sullied with blood. The other student can't react soon enough to defend, or to fight back, and in the back of his mind he knows he's going to have to take a nap, today, because already he is feeling tired, sluggish and dull, sticking to the ground like roots and leaves, fallen leaves. Winter is almost here, and with it shorter days - he doesn't like the cold it brings, either, and shivers against the wind.

When he's finished, he roughs him up a little more so an ambulance can be called, and then waits until it arrives, tracing the sensitive skin of his wrist with one finger for something to do. Flicks his bangs from his face. He'll need to cut them when he gets home, in the bathroom mirror. Hibari can see his veins, blues and greens and muggy purples, and silently compares them to that of the driver when the van appears, all business and breaking speed. Tells them: Fix him up, he's a student here. And then, he leaves.

xxxxxx

Hibari slams him into the wall, one hand on his hip and one arm across his chest, elbow resting against his collarbone and the junction of his arm, easily. Curled around a single tonfa, metal unwavering. The sound of Ryohei's head hitting the cement behind him is familiar, and safe, and slightly nostalgic. And he almost does it a second time, but doesn't want to give him a chance to move, so he doesn't and he doesn't.

Despite the awkward positioning of his limbs, and his shorter stature, he has the upper hand. The other student is dazed, but when he speaks the full force of his enthusiasm is still there - and Kyoya bristles. The ribbed edges of his sweater always irritates his skin, there are marks of red from scratching. His eyes trace the lines as far as they can go: indigos and marions and milk-white smears, bloomed and faded scars. Eyelashes like freshly-ground ink. A white brace is on his nose to keep the bone in place while it mends itself, and he can imagine the marrow, and the cells, and the myelin sheaths with neurons never, never touching.

"You haven't completely healed from last time." He spits, pressing harder against an injured limb, waiting for the snap. Because he was_sleeping_ up here, during his lunch break, and he's heard this asked a thousand times before, and someone should beat some sense into him so he can at least _knot his tie properly_, the idiot. His vision blurs, and the flooring turns to ultramarine, reflecting the sky, and he blinks, twice. Takes a step back, then another, and tells him to leave him alone, just leave him alone, only it comes out -

"Déjame en paz."

And he frowns, confused, and retries in the proper language. Words thick from dreams. So Kyoya yawns, and lets Ryohei be, resting against the wall with his eyes shut tight in pain. Flesh still tingling with heat, where they touched. Disgusting. He briefly considers taking a shower, here, because there is enough time left - but doesn't want the boxer to follow, so instead he returns to his classroom and naps against his desk until the teacher wakes him. Because Sasagawa, he knows, won't ask him again.

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Written for _La Consorteria._ For _seiskink69.__  
_


	14. Chapter 15

Disclaimer: I don't own Katekyo Hitman Reborn.

Vietato l'ingresso

_Written October Sixth, 2008  
_

Dokuro's eyes are calmly staring into him, and he smiles, and he speaks. Her fingers reach up to fix the elastic band in her hair, which is loose. Can _he_ hear the words as well, or is he entirely withdrawn from sentiency? This is his question, and this is the first time he's been in a good enough mood to ask it, skin warm and with the scent of mud in the air. Limbs still, the familiar weight of the tonfa settled into the waistband of his slacks, uniform jacket slung over his shoulders with careless deliberacy. Leaning against nature.

She doesn't know.

And it's no matter; he can wait. Because the first time he hears that quiet, light voice change into one of a more sonorous pitch, the swish of pleats melt into silence, he will be at the point where his teeth are iron pinpricks, unnoticeable, killing from the inside out like a thousand tiny slashes and water dashed with salt, like an opiate sweetness on the tip of the tongue from muted memories of summer days, soft and humid drifts of thoughts. Something vague and hazy to dull the senses. And before long it will be over; he will have won. Hibari turns the page, heady descriptions of a girl-child - of an insolent nymphet and suburban propaganda - hidden among the words, and holds one hand over his eyes to shield the sun.

xxxxx

Hospital. Glaring, starch-white fluorescents that bleed in through eyelids and bits of gauze. Sounds: the scuffing of shoes against the metal of his bed, against the polished floor of the sanatorium, words too soft, too soft, too –

His fingers are gone. Unable to feel nails scraping against the sheets, or the pressing of plaster and fabric wraps: only the oozing, pulsating ache of his blood moving through his veins and the velvet of his lungs, fluttering. Cracked. And - _he'd never say anything, never_- Hibari knows that someone is here. Their candor is nearly sickening, or perhaps this is a mixture of chemical synthesis and thought, because when:

_You still can't win._ It drifts. He can taste the syllables, like granite flakes and dust, coating the inside of his mouth as he breathes in, breathes out. His parietal lobe, too, something is wrong. A touch against his shoulder, against the smooth, sensitive skin on the inside of his wrist, against his mouth. The same phantasmal half-consciousness he's been rousing with, lately.

Once upon a time, inside a bamboo shoot, a princess was found. He almost laughs, almost. Dino speaks but the words are garbled, blurred and dripping with monochrome the way the herbivore always, always does, so he wouldn't have listened [even if he wasn't seeing streaks of bloated colour invade his vision, a plethora of spots]. There is violet, garnet seeping everywhere, and he can't move, because even these _ideas _are lethargic and - because his wings have been clipped and his fangs have dulled like roots, mere nubs. Something in his mouth tastes like lukewarm taro, slimy and reeking of the earth.

He can't help but come to the conclusion of yes, it was _them_, and yet and yet. And yet there is static; his pupils have contracted with the lights, and el "enfermero" le pone una inyección and he knows because even his enervation -

xxxxx

There is an incessant need to study illusions, ever since the battle of rings and his first witness of coarse, glaucous twill. Vitriolic disgrace, in his failure to maintain the discipline of Namimori. Her sea-glass bias has been burned into his memory along with the knowledge that he would not, in fact, be prepared for an attack of that type. Still, he doesn't ally: Turn weaknesses into strengths, and only the lamed have defects to begin with, and he is not about to breakfast cud. He hates humanity for again developing something he must learn to combat, and for that reason will master it and beat it to his will, in order to gain the ability to castigate dear Mukuro with steel and teeth and -

[Now, his smile is hidden by gloved fingers and his hair is cut with a razor's edge.] Hibari can see the two at once, one eye closed and one staring straight ahead, and he marks his progress with broken bones in the tiled hallway of his beloved junior high. An art that lets slender, phlegmatic little girls and halcyonic men alike thrash him as they wish is intolerable, and he tastes blood on his lips when replaying the mirages of vines and frost, glimpses of the future, glimpses of the past, glimpses of downy, scarred skin and sardonic smiles as his - her - _their_ body twists and shudders amidst an onslaught of mental attacks. Fighting, and winning, against an Arcobalenco.

Impressive. The only ones to have sped his heart rate, besides the baby with that [single counter-attack hidden among the recollections of by-gone days.] In addition, Mukuro has beaten him, once - mottled bruises, snapped bones, gouged skin. The affirmed knowledge that there are, certainly, those who are still his superiors; that he can't idly sit by and watch the world spin on the rooftop of Namimori, cement underfoot and feathers in his hair. And the differences between supple and unwavering, Hades and lair, are few. He plans to close the gap.

xxxxx

Sweet, crystal-sugar lemonade on candy sticks and oil-slick fingers, the scent of warehouses and dishonest work. The whirring of mechanics and the heat of yellowing, fraying lights that sputter and fade in a rhythmic, sporadic, pattern of comfortable familiarity above his head. Desolate yet welcoming of home, an autonomic nervous of thick cords and elicited imagination, the dreams of a skilled roboticist slowly forming amidst the mess of a well-hidden room in this supposed "Family". The parts in his hands are as delicate and slick as freshly-buttered doves, as still-warm, ironed clothing, like little beating hearts of possibility lurching and fluttering against the sweat of his palm. There are dusts of matcha powder on the make-shift nightstand by the empty space where he unrolls his bed, and a novel with sullied pages, and a radio transmitter that's been picked apart like a carcass set by birds, like bare bones and voiceless reeds and papers burnt to smoke.

Cooling fluid and deft fingers, blonde hair. The careful twisting of microscopes and a fleeting suggestion of iontophoresis, textbook ministrations on electric currents and phylloquinonic properties. He likes the thought, and the words slip in his mouth, muddled when not in his native tongue. It's almost what inspired the method of absorb-and-reflect for his current model of killing machine, brandless like la madre della natura. Someday, he'll create something as realistic as a human itself, but fifty times as powerful as Vongola The Tenth, holding both the secrets of the rings and of life.

At another station there is the charmingly naïve blush of a young, half-dead boy, stapling papers and biding his time like a good informant will, having learned the proper savoir faire from now-old schoolmarms in stuffy classrooms and polished shoes: uniform immaculate and collar starched. His skills and breadth of knowledge - everything from mechanics to Gosse - have improved remarkably since he first captured this young frame. Unaccented, except when it counts, when empty beds are too forlorn and he won't be missed. For a little while. He's not stupid enough to show his impatience, and what does it matter, anyway? It's not often that the room's too hot for sleeping, so he can waste his time playing subordinate for as long as he likes.

Flowers, indeed.

He reads between the lines as easily as breathing, can imagine Spanner and Mukuro, secrecy and illusory youth. Hibird rests, silently nestled in his hair, and taps at the keyboard in front of him, stooping to glance at the screen with a bored frown. The raid will come soon, and so he destroys all traces with an unnecessary flourish, and doesn't mind the idea of being caught.

xxxxx

_Chrome_. He can feel her body heat, sickeningly warm, and hear the throbbing of her pulse from even this distance. She doesn't seem to notice, and it's irritating that even now -

_I'll have to ask him._ She says in response, tracing the hem of her skirt. Hibari thinks that maybe, he could beat it out of her, make her say yes no matter what - and still, he knows, he's thinking irrationally. He's been woken up from sleep, these past few days. Too many heartbeats, too loud. Instead, _fix your shirt_, he tells her: pulling needle and thread and thread from a pocket in his suit, using his teeth to cut the length.

She's a girl, after all.

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Written for _La Consorteria.__  
_


	15. Chapter 16

Disclaimer: I don't own Katekyo Hitman Reborn

**Chodenji**

_Posted July 25th, 2009  
_

The sign on the door reads out of service, and he sighs, adjusting his glasses. The lenses are smeared and disorienting, his eyes unfocusing in an attempt to make things clear. The hallway is crowded, a sea, jostling him despite the fact that _he is one of Mukuro's,_ but he doesn't push back. Doesn't like to… sweat. Chikusa can see dirt under his fingernails, dirt and blood and flecks of rotting skin, and if he were Ken he would bite them clean; until the edges were ragged and short. Instead, he moves, the throbbing of music faint around his neck.

When he reaches the second bathroom, across the school and around the corner, there is no soap - just a filmy residue, pink staining the ceramic of the basin and dirtying the drain. _His pockets are empty._ So with hot water and the edge of his shirt he scrubs the polycarbonate and sighs, worrying at scratches and blinking in the light. Jacket unbuttoned and collar undone. The world is a myriad of colours, and all edges are soft, and he recognizes not by shape but by sound and touch and taste, and Mukuro tells him there is [more than one way to change reality].

xxx

His headphones have broken. Wires snapped and naked, bruised, like splinters of bone from an open wound, an amputation of protective flesh, [of once-life]. It could be salvageable, he thinks. Broken pieces could be mended, whole - _unless, this is all in his mind. He traces its outline with a finger, following the damage, testing_ - but it's no use. He can't compete with illusions. Can't compete with, Mukuro. Chikusa picks up the shards and feels their edges digging into the pads of his fingers, the palm of his hand.

It could have been Ken. Careless, careless. He imagines the fractured, crushing weight of fingers wrapped around his neck; suffocating, immobilizing - so easily, so easily. [And then, death] like a film, the scenes slip before him, fifteen frames per second and misaligned. Calmly, he slides his glasses up his nose and tugs at the collar of his shirt. The weight of the bandalore in his pocket tells him that, if nothing else, this is something he could...

Chikusa almost decides to ask _that_ girl, just as a confirmation, and then thinks better of it. She's useless. Like a transmitter - or neuron, slicked with fat. [They've taught her, her place, as in] ghosts shouldn't talk, should never talk. Because once, there were things discarnate. In the air, in the world, in one's thoughts, like an aura the whole country possessed. With princesses and tsars and little magic boxes given by a god, painted in the golden hue of Italia, with a single wish inside. _His wish is for the world to end._

Nagi, _and she is Nagi,_ and she is Nagi, lays on the couch. Staring at the ceiling. Unmoving. It's unnatural, how she can spend the day looking for nothing save patterns in the sky, the ceiling. If she is talking with Mukuro, creating a world for herself with illusions and petty thoughts and dreams, he does not know [how she can smile].

No one wants her here, but she is a necessity. An appliance. And for that, he will leave her alone.


End file.
